


Boredom

by Mismaed



Series: Junkrat Drabbles [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Language, There's a lot of that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8834914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mismaed/pseuds/Mismaed
Summary: Junkrat's really bored.(That's literally it.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> *note: I don’t know where I’m going with this, I’m just bored in class and avoiding writing a lab report for chem. (Don’t tell my professors)
> 
> *update: I didn’t know what to write and finished that lab report. Ugh. The video we’re watching in class is so freaking loud, typing is hard. (I still haven’t written anything)
> 
> *update II: It’s been three weeks since I started this. Help.

A hollow clunk echos through the room, shortly followed by a second thud, and then a third. Junkrats leg bounced impatiently, tapping out a rapid and unsteady beat into the metal floor below him. Everything was metal here, a strange concept when one spent as much time as he outside in the dirt. Perhaps there had been a point that he’d lived under the shelter of one of these artificial nests. Perhaps not. 

 

He couldn't remember.

 

He didn’t care.

 

Turning his head to look out the window, he watches the sky lazily push clouds across the pristine panels. The blobs of white seemed to be taking their time in traveling, and that somehow made him more anxious to move. Everything was so damn slow in this wretched base. They’d been here for three days, he and Roadie, and Hell be damned if Jamison wasn't ready to explode- whether that be literally or figuratively he wasn’t sure. Both sounded pretty nice right about now.

 

Three days they’d been here.

 

Three.

 

Painful.

 

Boring.

 

Days.

 

He’d been man handled (and not in the good way mind you), nearly drowned in what that witch of a doctor refered to as a decontamination shower, been forbidden from blowing anything up, had half of his possessions removed from his person after he DID blow something up, forced to sit in on more meetings, lectures and debriefings than he could count anymore, and generally cooped up inside for the entirety of the past half a week. If he’d had known going straight would be this difficult, he’d’ve shoved a grenade straight up that damn monkey’s ass and told him to “fuck off” the second he attempted to recruit him and his bodyguard companion. As it was at the time, help running from the law sounded like a swell idea. As good as he and Roadhog were, they could only keep it up on their own for so long. That speech about being a hero hadn’t been nearly as appealing as the idea of not being dragged to prison by a giant ape and the team of freaks and misfits he brought with him. 

 

Besides, he’d figured they’d get along just fine with the rest of the rejects. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

The first day the resident medic had free reign of him. It had taken the help of a friggin’ giant who, despite his age, was nothing but a pure wall of muscle to keep him still long enough to get him stripped to his skivvies and tossed in a shower that may as well have been a cell. After that Roadhog- damn the traitor- had to help get his prosthetics off for a proper examination that ended with Angela or whatever-her-name-is recommending he upgrade his peg leg. Needless to say the suggestion was met with angry shouts and a plethora of foul language and insults.

 

He didn’t see her the next day, but he wasn’t so stupid as to not realize she was still watching from a distance. The sheila was everywhere. It was creepy as fuck.

 

There were a pair of them meant to interrogate him- a scrawny woman with a visor and some dwarf with a beard longer than he was tall. They had some electronic white board type thing set up in a medium sized room that was cluttered with peanut butter jars of all things, skribbles Jamison could barely make out scrawled across the screen. 

 

Within five minutes he’d irritated the woman with an unknown- yet somehow still nice to listen to- accent to the point of storming out of the room. The short man, who claimed to not be a dwarf, yet definitely was was irritable trying to explain to him that he needed to learn trigonometry if he wanted to be more effective in battle. It had taken some convincing, but junkrat eventually talked the other into heading “outside” by offering him a challenge.

 

A series of targets were placed on a makeshift practice range which was (irritatingly) still indoors. He gave the midget a solid ten seconds to start his calculations, ignoring every comment about trajectory and air resistance or some similar drivel while he swiftly assembled his grenade launcher. When prompted for comment about the amount of rotary power his launcher supplied, Junkrat merely shrugged, haphazardly pointed the weapon towards the targets while handing it to the other. “Bet I can hit more than you can while you do that math trash” He’d commented.

 

He waited for the Swede to fire a test shot, then apparently run some mental figures before lobbing a second grenade directly at one of the targets in the line. “You see,” the elder man commented, ignoring Jamison as he swiftly tore apart two of his concussion mines, rearranging their innards before closing one off. “If you just apply yourself-” another grenade hit a target, and perhaps Jamison was mildly impressed. Rather, he would be impressed if he wasn’t busy lazily tossing his altered mine towards the center of the remaining three targets. It landed a few feet short. 

 

“-You’d improve ten fold.” The other concluded, looking rather pleased with himself. Clearly he saw this toss as proving his point. 

 

Jamie merely grinned, bent down to look the other in the eye and stated “Aiming’s overrated” before pressing the button on his detonator, his mine taking out everything within a twenty foot radius. Consequently, the room was then a wall short. 

 

Which was supposedly why they took away his tools and supplies. 

 

Which was why he was sitting here, at an empty desk.

 

Bored.

 

With nothing to do.

 

Grumbling to himself, Jamison flops forward to let his head bang against the desk. That was a mistake. Everything, even the damn desk, was metal here. Groaning to himself and putting a hand up to his now aching head he slowly pushes himself to his feet. Maybe Roadhog was busy with something. At least pestering him would give him something to do. If not, well…

 

These damn Overwatch people were the ones who expected him to behave with nothing entertaining to do, and hacking a cleaning drone for a few basic “household chemicals” shouldn’t be too hard. 

 

On second thought, forget Mako. He had an art project to make.

**Author's Note:**

> That art project is going straight back into the cleaning drone and then getting sent to Soldier 76's quarters.


End file.
